


Kill, Heal, Rest, Repeat

by TomDuggerbug



Category: Dead Cells (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Needles, also the prisoner has learned some sign language. good for him, tagging that last one just to be sure, two dumbasses catch feelings and don't know what to do about it, uhh what the FUCK is this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-19 23:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19366195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomDuggerbug/pseuds/TomDuggerbug
Summary: The Prisoner returns with more injuries than usual.





	Kill, Heal, Rest, Repeat

The Collector was starting to worry. He knew he shouldn't, because the Prisoner always managed to make his way back, no matter how long he was gone, but there was still always a point in time after he left when the Collector would start to think something went wrong, and he would start getting nervous. The Prisoner was strong, yes, but he was hotheaded and tended to rush into situations without thinking it through first. And he had last been seen going to the Clock Tower, whose "inhabitants" the Collector knew could easily desecrate him if he wasn't careful.

He hesitated to admit it, but he had grown rather fond of the Prisoner. In the beginning, their relationship was strictly business; the Prisoner world bring him cells, and the Collector would supply him with all the gear he could afford. But over time, the two became friends, and now the Collector found himself worrying in his absence and always feeling relieved whenever he barged in, even though he would smash the door in every time, apparently too high on adrenaline and hubris to open it politely. The Collector started caring less and less about the state of the door and more about the state of the Beheaded himself, always feeling concerned and almost a little guilty whenever he returned injured, which was most of the time.

It was far past the point of thinking something had gone wrong. The Prisoner had been gone for far too long. He must had his body destroyed and been sent back to the Prisoner's Quarters. Even if he had, however, he was still taking an oddly long time. The Collector watched the door, waiting, bracing himself, hoping it would come flying off its hinges soon.

After far too long of mindlessly wandering the room, tapping the glass of his many vials, and checking the door every few seconds, he finally heard it click open. He almost missed it, because he was so used to being startled by the Prisoner's entrances, and him actually opening the door properly was certainly a change. Unfortunately, the reason why he spared the door became clear immediately to the Collector, who gasped at the sight. The Prisoner's body was leaning heavily against the door, saturated and dripping with crimson. He pushed himself forward, staggering towards the Collector on barely-functioning legs.

"My word!" The Collector rushed over just as the Prisoner crumpled to his knees, and he knelt down in front of the smaller body, putting hands on his shoulders so he wouldn't keel over. "Oh dear, oh dear." The extent of his injuries became apparent as the Collector looked him over: one arm had been completely mauled, with chunks of flesh hanging heavily along its length and empty spaces where flesh had been torn clean off. Glimpses of bone were visible through the blood that still oozed down the limb, and the Collector has no idea how it was still even attached. His other arm was badly burned, as was his body; there were smouldering gashes in his chest and one particularly large one in his side that had already cauterized from heat, as well as countless slash and stab wounds littering his skin. There were multiple arrows stuck in his back, and his head was looking more greenish and blobby than usual, the black smoke he constantly emitted thin and wispy, spark of an eye glowing dimly. He was barely breathing, and the Collector watched as he slowly brought up a bag stuffed full of cells with his less damaged arm, which still shook violently from the effort. The Collector took it from him and set it aside, coaxing him to lower his arm. "Don't worry about those, we can sort them later," he said, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice. "Now come, let me heal you. Your body won't last much longer unless we do something." He was sure the Prisoner had been worse, had been maimed and mauled and killed countless times, but seeing the extent of the damage he faced firsthand did something to the Collector's emotions that he couldn't quite understand. He decided not to think about it too much.

He lifted the Prisoner up carefully and carried him to an empty back table illuminated by burning candles, setting him down as gently as possible and removing his hands from where they had grabbed fistfuls of his robe, as if he was worried of falling. The first thing the Collector did was dig the arrows out of his back, apologizing profusely as the Prisoner convulsed in pain. For once, the Collector was grateful for his inability to speak or produce sound; he knew he wouldn't be able to handle it if he cried or made any noise of pain. Once the arrows had been removed, the Collector set to work cleaning the wounds. Some of his clothes had to be removed so he could access them properly, but if the Prisoner cared, he didn't express it.

His bad arm was dealt with first: disinfecting it, stitching the flesh back together as much as was possible, and tightly wrapping the limb with bandages. Before he wrapped it, however, the Collector made sure to inject him with some of the blue liquid he kept around in syringes. It was a medicine of sort that he had created from the cells, which would help the healing process as well as fight off any infections that might have set in. The Prisoner flinched as the needle plunged into his skin, and despite how the Collector urged him to relax, he stayed tense, making it even harder to inject him with the thick blue liquid. He only let out a breath and relaxed once the needle had been pulled out, looking weak and exhausted. The Collector knew he had to hurry; he was fading fast. 

He quickly turned to the burns, gashes and lacerations across the rest of his body next. Some of the wounds had small pieces of metal wedged in the flesh, which he carefully extracted with tweezers, mumbling apologies whenever he would pull at a particularly painful piece and the Prisoner would jerk away. He continued then with the same process as he used on his arm, using a healing salve that had also been created from cells in place of the injections. He kept a close eye on the Prisoner's breathing, which was slow and even, yet still shaky. He wouldn't heal perfectly, body far too damaged to make a flawless recovery, but it would have to do. It was better than nothing.

The Collector was busy bandaging his torso when he was interrupted by a tap on the shoulder. He paused in his work and glanced up at the Prisoner, shocked to see him looking at him with lucidity. Perhaps he wasn't as close to death as the Collector had thought. His better arm was brought up, and the Collector wanted to tell him not to move too much, but he clearly had something to say, so he bit his tongue.

'Why?' the Prisoner signed slowly, movement limited by his bandages.

"Whatever do you mean?"

'Not needed. I die, I return. Don't need help.' His signing was rather sloppy and primitive, as the Collector had only taught him a few signs so far, just enough that they could communicate. Sign language used to be decently widespread on the island before, but the Prisoner had obviously never learned it in his previous life, probably having never thought he'd need it. Fortunately the Collector was able to remember bits and pieces; it sufficed, even though he wasn't able to give the Prisoner proper lessons.

"Well, you don't want your journey to end here, do you? These wounds are much too severe for a simple health potion to fix, and unfortunately, it only gets more difficult from here on out. You'll want to be at your best." At this point, the Collector knew him well enough to know that if he could make facial expressions, he'd probably be scowling with reluctant acceptance. "Come now, it never hurts to rest a while. Whatever's out there can wait for you." The Prisoner didn't sign anything after that, and the Collector resumed his work. It didn't take long before the Prisoner was all patched up, and the Collector fetched him a health potion, which he had to help him drink.

"There. Now I want you to stay here until your wounds have healed. It shouldn't take long, and then you're free to go." The Prisoner nodded slightly, already looking healthier after drinking the potion. "Oh, and try not to move too much. I'm sorry, I know the table is uncomfortable, but it's for the best. I'll see if I have a blanket or something for you, hold on just a moment." He turned to leave, but was suddenly stopped by a hand grabbing his robe. Looking back, he was surprised to see the Prisoner sitting up, holding on to him with surprising strength considering his injuries. "...Yes?" The Prisoner was looking away almost bashfully. "Is something the matter?" He let go, still not looking at the Collector, and signed something very carefully and deliberately.

'Thank you.'

The Collector blinked in shock. He never taught him that, having never thought someone as rude and cynical as he would ever need to use it.

"Where...did you learn that?" The Prisoner turned further away and quickly waved a hand, as if to brush it off as unimportant. The Collector almost chuckled; he had never seen him look so embarrassed and unconfident before.

"Well, you're welcome. Consider it my payment for you bringing me so many cells." He cleared his throat. "Now then, rest. Make yourself comfortable, and I'll see to finding that blanket." The Prisoner nodded, looking a little more relaxed, and the Collector watched as he stretched out and laid down on the table, facing away from him. Was he even able to sleep? The Collector had no idea. There was so much about the Prisoner that was still a mystery, and he found himself wishing he knew more about him. Maybe, with time, they could get to know each other better.

Chest warm and feeling rather giddy, the Collector finally turned away to find the promised blanket.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a true story because the Clock Tower is really freaking hard and by the time I finally made it to the Collector I had less than a quarter of health left (Also I haven't beaten the game yet so no spoilers in the comments please)


End file.
